


Love is Fiction

by Lookingforgrowth



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Librarian/Writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lookingforgrowth/pseuds/Lookingforgrowth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday gift for @snow-into-ash on Tumblr.<br/>Emma is a writer who does her best work at Killian's library. It doesn't take long for him to become her new muse. All is well until she starts writing herself into the story. Writer!Emma and Librarian!Killian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to start posting my one-shots to A03 as well instead of only tumblr.

“Excuse me, where can I find books written by Chuck Palahniuk?” Emma looks up from her laptop screen to see the two new main characters in her story. If she were writing in script format there’d be some stage notes like ‘Enters the beautiful heroine, long dark locks and a thin physic. Evidently beautiful, but just doesn’t know it yet.’ There’d be a spotlight on her, a bright white light casting a shadow behind her that vaguely resembles angel wings or a halo. Something that says ‘this girl is it.’

 

And off to the left, the gorgeous, brooding librarian who hates his job as a shelver. He would be described as ‘tall, dark and handsome’ despite being close to the same height as the heroine who is also brunette. His spotlight would have some cool gel to it, creating the ambiance that he’s so blue and melancholy. Once the two meet in center stage, the whole scene illuminates, a row of library shelves behind them.

 

“ _We all die. The goal isn't to live forever; the goal is to create something that will.”_ The hero is British. Big plus, these accents are doing insane things to YA sales, as if the kids could actually hear them.

 

“What?” The heroine misses the obvious quote. Emma rethinks putting that in her notes. She doesn’t particularly want another ditzy novel where the male protagonist is so smart and the female is just hot. Sure, she wants it to sell, but she wants to also inspire a nation. A book that will, to quote the male protagonist(and Chuck Palahniuk by extension), ‘Live forever.’

 

“It was a…ah, it’s all fiction and organized by Author’s last name, so row 8 should be PAA-PAW. I would say mid row, the third shelf, but I may be off a book or two.”

 

“Oh, you were quoting him. Great, I’m gonna use that in my report.” Annnnnd the heroine is still in high school. Time to count her out.

 

Emma goes back to the story at hand. She’s in the middle of writing some post-apocalyptic thriller about a group of gifted kids, similar to the x-men only everyone is human-passing, who divide up what’s left of a nation and decide to rule. It came to her after a three-day cleanse her roommate forced her to go on. You think up the craziest shit when you’re starving.

 

“Oh, is this book taken?” an older guy, early thirties, takes a seat instead of the book. “I love this author, have you read Catcher in the Rye?” There’s a copy of ‘Nine Stories by J.D Salinger’ on the table but she’s not reading it.

 

“Did I read Catcher in the Rye?” Emma gets hit on from time to time by older men. They prowl the library for women reading books they can comment on. She’s not one of those women. She doesn’t come to the library to read, she comes to write, and more importantly, to people watch.

 

It’s best done in areas where talking isn’t allowed. Instead of watching how someone interacts with an audience, she likes to observe those silly little tendencies that make characters real and relatable. For instance, this guy keeps rubbing his thumb to the underside of his ring finger, as if he’d be spinning the wedding band that normally sits there. He’s either recently divorced or the scummiest S.O.B. in existence. 

 

“No? It’s a shame. You would love it.”

 

“And where do you draw that conclusion? Do I look like I have much in common with Holden Caulfield?”

 

“Oh, so you have read it?”

 

“Yes, in high school, only about five years back. Has your wife read it?” The man goes ghost, suddenly his tongue doesn’t function and the words he’s looking for seem out of reach. “I’m sort of busy here, but if you’re interested in reading that book, please take it and read it anywhere that isn’t next to me.” He leaves the book but takes the hint and that’s really all she could ask for anyhow.

 

-/-

 

“Young man?” There’s a small little lady approaching her favorite librarian. She walks with a cane that barely ever grazes the carpet, but that’s not Emma’s business to question. Emma’s business is the interaction. If she’s building a character in her mind around the librarian, she’s going to need a few more interactions.

 

“Yes?” He turns with a genuine smile. It’s the first time she’s ever seen one in the last four months she’s been coming here. She’s seen seasons change outside the large floor to ceiling windows, but never the sincerity of her main character.

 

“Do you have larger print magazines and newspapers?” The woman’s voice shakes and she places her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. He replies kindly with a nod before abandoning his cart and taking her to wherever those are located. Emma adds ‘gentle with the elderly' to her notebook.

 

-/-

 

“Love in the Time of Cholera” another book, another man. “Are you pen pals with anyone?” He sits without requesting to and leans into her space. She blinks hard before closing her laptop for the day.

 

“Libraries are not bars, buddy. You don’t walk up to women and try to sleep with them. Next time you want to talk to one, reconsider.” As she packs her stuff in her messenger bag, she’s positive she hears her special librarian laugh. She makes a mental note to create a physical one later, filing it under ‘Things that make him laugh.’

 

-/-

She gets a study room this time. She has made no headway in her latest chapter and is getting restless. She needs to lock herself away from predatory men and the sound of his stupidly attractive voice. He’s her next project and she wants to finish this first before falling for her muse.

 

And for whatever reason, the library built their activity room directly beside the row of study rooms. She’s locked out the noise from the outside world directed before the glass door of the room but the back wall is paper thin and she hears a million babbling babies and dangerously played instruments. A single voice above the noise does actually come out smooth and melodic. There’s a guitar that strums along with toy xylophones and tambourines.

 

She pretends to take a bathroom break, leaving the room with a sign that says ‘occupied.’ Curiosity is killing her focus and one peek won’t hurt anyone. Sure enough, he’s leading the class, a sign beside the door reading ‘Music and Movement.’ He’s not just a ‘shelver’ he’s a singer and a musician and this story just needs to be written.

 

She races back to her study room and opens a new word doc, pulling out every note she ever made on him the last few months. The setting is unknown and there’s still no love interest, but she’s 4000 words in by the end of her 2-hour session. He’s still a librarian by day, but he also plays in coffee shops at night and is saving up to buy a ticket to London to visit his family for Christmas. He’s still hurting from his last relationship, has an infinity for quoting literature at inopportune times and, on occasion, fantasizes about falling in love with a writer.

 

It isn’t until she’s re-reading what she wrote that she realizes what she’s done.

 

“Shit.”

 

There’s a tapping on the glass door of the study room and she knows her time is up before she glances up to find him staring back at her. She’s the girl in the bright white spotlight, the heroine. The male lead is always an anti-hero in her stories. No one needs superman all the time when Batman makes for a more interesting backstory. Besides, a dark and dreary past is relatable to the little-lost-girl in her.

 

“I just took over circulation, so if you want, I’ll reset the two hours and never tell a soul.” The first words they share and they’re already lie-buddies. She couldn’t write this if she tried. She could actually. She just did.

 

“Are you asking me to get in cahoots with you?”

 

“I figure in here you’re safer from the scurvy men who try to hit on you with literature from the tenth-grade reading list.”

 

“Scurvy?”

 

“Make me a pirate in one of your stories, will you? I’ve got a lifelong dream.” He grins while simultaneously licking his lower lip. It’s a true show of talent and she plans on remembering that for a later scene in her story.

 

“How do you know I’m a writer? These could be college essays.”

 

“Too much dialogue for essays.”

 

“Are you reading over my shoulder?”

 

“This is a riveting conversation but I believe there’s a need for my assistance at the desk. Happy typing.” He starts to back out of the door mouthing ‘Pirate’ in the most obvious way. She looks back down at her screen, the display blacking out after inactivity, and sees her grinning reflection.

 

“Shit.”

 

-/-

 

She’s been avoiding the library for a couple of weeks, trying to do her writing in parks and coffee shops and failing miserably. Coffee shops aren’t quiet, the play music all the time and she finds herself writing the lyrics to keep from seeing them instead of writing her story. Parks don’t have wifi so she can’t triple check the meaning of the word she wants to use. Writing at home isn’t an option, with her roommate always practicing the oboe and her roommate’s sister always over watching Netflix from her account.

 

She bites the bullet and returns to the library, settling in a quiet nook near the non-fiction section. She finds inspiration straying from her a bit as she stares at the same sentence for forty-five minutes.

 

“Excuse me, where would I find books written by Jane Austen?” The voice is younger, must be a middle-schooler looking for a project. Emma bends backward to catch a glimpse between aisles at a little girl with curly, light brown hair showing everyone’s favorite protagonist a piece of paper.

 

“ _I may have lost my heart, but not my self-control.”_ He quotes before taking a moment to walk her to the correct aisle. How fitting he quote ‘Emma.’ It hits her then they don’t even know each other’s name. She’s been referring to him as a million descriptive titles but not his name. In the story, she’s picked 'Theo.' It’s not the best name she could have picked but he has a ‘Theo’ sort of face.

 

“Hello, Stranger.” She got caught in her thoughts and he managed to sneak up on her. She takes a breath of courage before looking up from her laptop.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.” He repeats with a silly smirk. He leans against the bookshelf nearest to him and narrows his eyes. “Were you out of town or something, I haven’t seen you around lately.”

 

“Oh, I uh…I read that J.K Rowling locked herself up in a hotel room for months to finish one of the Harry Potter books. I figured, a week or so in my room would be a good equivalent.” She should ask his name now, for research purposes. If this was a nude form art class, she’d know the models name…wouldn’t she? “So, what should I refer to the pirate in my next story as?”

 

“Are you asking my name or what I’d like my name to be?”

 

“Both?”

 

“Killian, and Captain Zephyr.”

 

“Zephyr?”

 

“Yes, Captain Atlas Zephyr of the Jewel of the Realm.”

 

“How do I justify that?”

 

“A Zephyr is a gentle breeze, and that’s all it takes to set sail, love. A gentle breeze and a map.” He winks at her before walking off. She’s not sure if she should be offended that he didn’t ask her name. It’s more than likely best this way. If he’s not that interested in her, she can let this weird crush fizzle out the way they all do.

 

He returns with his cell phone and hands it to her.

 

“Can I have your name as well?”

 

“Just my name?” she looks at where he’s already pulled open the address book and prepared for a new contact to be entered.

 

“I’m not going to beat around the bush because it’s been five months and I think I should have perhaps asked you out four months ago. I think your dedication to your craft is very attractive and I would like to see you outside of the library.” He isn’t smiling now, but looking down at her with these eyes she can’t come up with a simile to describe. An adjective perhaps. Beautiful? Maybe cosmic? She’s seen them before, of course, but when he looks at her now, it’s like he’s looking into her soul.

 

Oh, that is so cliché. She’s a writer for God’s sake. Okay, Killian’s eyes are like—

 

“Is there something on my face, love?” Just her eyes, scanning him like a laser printer.

 

This is the point in all literature where that soul-mate stuff gets spilled on the table. She’s supposed to feel pieces of herself slip into place and that mixed up, lost feeling she’s experienced her whole life is just supposed to evaporate.  

 

—His eyes are like snow cone syrup. Not the blue raspberry flavor that’s electric blue but the blue coconut one with—God what is she saying?

 

He made a better muse before she knew his name. All she can do is relate the way it feels to look into his eyes to breathing after eating a cough drop. Equally stupid, but her lungs honestly feel clearer than they’ve ever been.

 

The weight of his phone in her hands brings her back to reality. The issue isn’t him at all. He’s the muse but she should never write herself into her stories.

 

“I don’t actually give my number out.” She hands his phone back to him without typing a digit. “But, my name is Emma.”

 

This is the part where he quotes something else. It’s how she’s written his character. He’s supposed to say another line from literature and make the audience think all librarians are worldly only because they are wordy.

 

“Nice to meet you, Emma.” He says to his phone screen, disappointment cloaking his otherwise flawless face. He takes his leave again. Minutes go by but he doesn’t return this time.

 

-/-

 

A week goes by and she catches him exiting the music and movement class again, guitar in hand. She smiles and he nods and that’s really all that happens. She makes it to circulation before him, checks out a study room and angles her chair away from the door.

 

This chapter has him meeting the love of his life in a coffee shop he’s playing in. She has red hair like the little mermaid, and he would make a really great Prince Eric. They don’t know they’re in love yet. He’s just looking for indie sounding female vocals to duet with on a couple of original pieces. When ‘Margaux’ looks into his eyes, the simile comes to Emma lightening quick. This is who her muse should be with. Someone who can see the oceanic quality his baby blues have to offer.

 

There’s a knock on the door and she tenses. When it opens, Emma turns to meet those ‘oceanic’ eyes and finds her lungs seizing at the cool rush they provide.

 

“Do you want me to reset? There’s no one else waiting for one.”

 

“Thank you, that’d be great.”

 

“Anything for you, Woodhouse.” He winks at her for the second time since they’ve been introduced and she almost misses the reference.

 

“It’s Swan. My last name is Swan.” She corrects.

 

“Swan?” He sounds amused, leaning against the doorframe. Emma realizes then that Captain Atlas Zephyr and Theo Duffinger are very aware of how attractive their bodies look at an angle. “That’s fitting.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Aye, beautiful from afar but vicious when strangers draw near.” He slips through the opening of the door and lets it slam with a bang.

 

She spends ten minutes watching videos that pull up under ‘Vicious Swans’ on Youtube.

 

 Maybe it is fitting, but girls like her have to hold their own.

 

-/-

 

The library is closing early tonight but she’s in such a great groove after witnessing Killian have multiple conversations with coworkers. His accent does something to her inspiration. She banged out 5000 words already and she’s not ready to stop.

 

She picks a coffee shop despite her better judgment. She gets there on a Friday night hoping that people in this town have plans and she’s the only loser with no life.

 

It’s a fucking open-mic night.

 

Maybe this is a good thing, she thinks. Maybe this will give her some serious insight. She takes out her notebook instead of her laptop. Research and real-life experience, two things every writer must have to create a relatable situation. 

 

From her mind to the galaxies design, a red-head makes her way on the make-shift stage. She’s seconds away from considering herself a psychic when the girl opens her mouth to sing and it’s a lot less indie and a lot more Disney-princess. Figures, she did describe her as the little mermaid. Her voice is beautiful, but not what Emma wants her main character to fall in love with. It’s a bit of an inspiration killer. She must have seen this girl before in the weeks she was avoiding the library. Looking at her now, she can’t imagine the two of them finding much in common. She seems a little too happy, and she figures Killia—Theo would prefer someone more sarcastic and slightly cynical.

 

Maybe someone jaded by love in the same aspect he is? Maybe someone who gets all his references and finds him funny in ways most guys have an issue pulling off? Maybe someone like her? Not her, never her. Someone similar, maybe better. She could write herself, only better.

 

She likes the idea of adding another failed dating experience into her anti-hero’s history. Sorry ‘Margaux,’ but you’re a plot device.

 

In walks Eliza Alcott. She’s blonde so they have this night and day thing going on that already cues her audience into their opposites-attract chemistry. The best part is when everyone learns that the sun and moon have much in common.

 

In walks Theo—no, Killian. Killian from the library actually walks in with his guitar. He’s performing next. She’s only ever heard him play children’s songs but the next one he sings is apparently original.

 

She listens closely to the lyrics. Emma’s been inspired by music before, why not something from her muse? As the song plays on, it becomes painfully clear that she’s not the only one inspired by real life people. It’s about a swan who only spreads her ‘gorgeous’ wings to push people away with them.

 

She doesn’t stay for a second number.

 

-/-

 

She’s really been trying not to come to the library. She’s started coming Sunday’s only when she knows he’s never around. This Sunday she sits in a quiet nook in the children’s section. The chair is making her back hurt and the mothers are looking at her like she’s a freak but no one else can see her.

 

She’s going back to writing her mutant story. Everyone is gifted and no one gets hurt, despite you know, the cons of a post-apocalyptic world, but no one is getting their heart broken and that’s what’s comforting her right now.

 

‘Heart-broken’ isn’t the word she’d used to describe what she’s feeling. That’s insane. Maybe Eliza Alcott would be, but Emma Swan doesn’t possess the capability.

 

“Was my singing that bad?” She shakes herself. Sometimes she daydreams about the next scenes she wants to write. Right now she thinks she can hear ‘Theo’s’ voice and she’s not even on that story. “Oy, well now you’re acting like it’s horrid.” She turns to find Killian standing beside the small chair.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“You are aware I work here, aren’t you? I don’t just have a preference for putting books away five days a week?”

 

“I know that, but you don’t work Sundays.”  His lips start to curl and she has to bite hers from mirroring him. He has a really cliché smile. She wouldn’t know how to describe it in an original way. Maybe, awe-inspiring. Whatever. He’s a dreamboat.

 

“You know my work schedule?”

 

“How else am I going to avoid you?” she counters. His smile turns a little tight as he glances around the children’s section. “Why are you here?”

 

“I take my cousin’s son to the library a couple of times a month.” That’s cute. He’s probably great with kids and that makes her want to write future crap in the epilogue. Like how Eliza and Theo have a kid…or something. “I’m gonna leave you to it then.” He starts to duck out and she starts to let him when she remembers the swan using her wings as walls to keep everyone out.

 

“Killian!” She jumps up and shouts though he’s only two feet away. It’s embarrassing when a six-year-old shushes you.

 

“This is a library, Swan.”

 

“Was that song about me?”

 

“I know another song evidently written about you.” He smirks all smug and whatnot. “How does it go? ‘You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you...” She leaves her laptop and the comfort of her nook to walk the few feet toward him.

 

“Was it?”

 

“Don’t you? Don’t you?” he sings softly and that’s what really gets her. He always sings loudly in music and movement. She can hear him through the walls. He was singing through a mic at the coffee shop but now it’s a murmur, almost a hum and his grin only makes it sound more intimate and sexy.

 

“No? Okay. Forget I ever said anything.” She turns around, headed to write a very angst-filled moment between the two of them, or, you know, the characters that are loosely based on them, when he tugs on her arm, pulling her around to face him.

 

“What if it was? What does that mean?”

 

“Means I owe you an apology. You’ve been very friendly and I have been a stone-cold bitch.” There’s a tiny gasp from behind Killian’s leg. She’s in the kid’s section swearing like it’s nothing. She hasn’t even whispered.

A child appears, dark shaggy hair and dimples so deep she tripped in them and fell instantly in love.

 

“Keeyan, she said a bad word!” He’s so cute and she’s so bad.

 

“Sorry!”

 

“She did, isn’t that naughty of her?”

 

“My dad does not like bad words.” The little boy warns her and if she didn’t hear the nickname and the explanation for his Sunday visits to the library, she may have thought he was a father. “You gotta promise not to say it again.”

 

“I promise.”

 

“What’s her name?” He asks Killian who crouches down to the kid’s level.

 

“This is Emma. I really like her.”

 

“Is she your girlfriend?” Killian pauses for a moment, peering up at her. She doesn’t know what to do with her face. Does she scowl or smile or frown? Is she surprised by the question, what does she wish the answer was?

 

“No…not…not yet but maybe one day if she admits that she likes me, too.” The little kid’s eyes widen, a mischief smirk making his dimples only that much deeper.

 

“Do you like Keeyan?”

 

“Keeyan?”

 

“’Killian’ doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, love.” He rises back to her level, the same mischief grin on his lips. “Answer the question, Swan.”

 

“Sure.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I like you.”

 

“Yeah?” he licks his lips and she forgets her name—literally forgets, the little boy calls her name a couple of times and she’s just standing there like an idiot until the third ‘Emma’ comes out of his innocent little mouth.

 

“What’s your name?” Emma replies a minute too late and is currently getting the stink eye from a little boy.

 

“Roland.” The ‘r’ is more like a ‘w’ but he’s cute and little so she can only hope he grows out of it later on in life.

 

“Nice to meet you.”

 

“Nice to meet you! Are you Keeyan’s girlfriend now?”

 

“Alright. I have to go back to writing. I saw a toddler eye-balling my laptop.” Emma waves to Roland, avoiding the stupid grin on Killian’s lip. He grabs her arm again and she turns reluctantly.

 

“Go out with me. You can’t confess your undying affections and not go anywhere from there. It’s 2016. We can’t have unrequited love in this day and age, no one will read it.”

 

“Undying? Love? Cool it, Romeo.”

 

“You know as well as I that Much Ado was his best piece.” She takes a page out of his book and quotes a page from Shakespeare.

 

“I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.” Much Ado About Nothing happens to be one of her favorites. Of course, it’s his. She couldn’t write this if she wanted to, and she does not. Letting herself become the heroine was the worse thing. Now she likes him and he likes her and they’re quoting Shakespeare in the children’s section on his day off.

 

“What about promises, you know, for future moments?” His eyes are gorgeous when they fill with mirth. It’s unfair the way she can’t compare them to anything when he’s staring at her with them. It’s a flaw in her code, she’s a writer by trade. She should be able to produce words that get people to understand her. Here she is experiencing the early signs of infatuation and she can’t form the words to let her audience know how it feels.

 

It feels good. For once a crush feels really good.

 

“You and I can go for coffee tomorrow night…seven?”

 

“The same place?” She nods. “Should we exchange numbers?”

 

“Only if you want me to text you and cancel.”

 

-/-

 

It snowballs like nothing she’s ever known. It starts off one night at the coffee shop. He gets there early and makes a point to bring his guitar. There is no open-mic scheduled but he’s in cahoots with the owner to let him play anyhow.

 

He plays this song he apparently wrote in his head the moment she said she liked him. It’s called ‘Six Months’ and it’s insane that he’s written more than one song for her. She’s written more than one story about him. He begs her to let him read something. He says it’s only fair.

 

She lets him read the Captain Atlas Zephyr story. 

 

“His brother is dead?” He glances up from the phone screen after reading quietly for seven and a half minutes.

 

“I don’t know why, but I just…”

 

“You knew my brother died?” He sounds almost upset.

 

“I didn’t know that.” Maybe she is psychic. “I just felt like you suffered a tragedy or something. You have a look in your eye.”

 

“Like I’ve been left alone?” She nods slowly. “You too.”

 

“Is that what drew you toward me? I’ve got a ‘lost boy’ look in my eye?”

 

“That and gorgeous blonde hair that I was absolutely positive hid a very massive, very beautiful mind beneath.” He leans closer as he compliments her. “You are also one of the most mystifying women I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Mystifying”

 

“The sort of infliction that knocks you out if you let it.”

 

“You’re cheesy. Don’t do that.”

 

“You can’t appreciate a charming metaphor?” He leans back smirking. She can, but she won’t. The minute she appreciates it, she’s got to react and god knows that leads to nothing but complications. “What are we doing here? Are we seeing each other? Can we see each other from now on?”

 

“This is the first time I’ve hung out with you outside of the library and you want a label already? That’s a lot clingier than I’d write you as a pirate.”

 

“What about your other story? I know I’m in that, too.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“You look for me when you’re stumped. I can tell, I’m your inspiration.” Cocky man, this one. She likes it on him. Confidence looks really good on him. “It’s quite alright, love. You’re mine.”

-/-

 

They hang out again a few days later. It’s hardly anything she would call a date. They go to a bookstore after getting coffee and walk around like hipsters having each other guess whether they’ve read this book or not. It’s insane he would want to spend more time around books, but he laughs like he’s loving it, and she’s loving the sound of his laugh.

 

“What about this one? I bet you’ve read this one.” It’s titled “Prefix to a Name” she has read it. She’s read it a few times, almost 100 when she was proof-reading it before sending it to an editor.

 

“Yes.” She nods, ignoring the look on his face when she doesn’t seem too thrilled about the game any longer.

 

“Was it not good?”

 

“It’s about a young girl who decides she’d rather exchange her ‘Ms.’ title for a ‘Dr.’ instead of a ‘Mrs.’ She goes on a journey choosing her career over her love life only to find out she can have both.”

 

“Huh.” He silently reads the back of the book. She can’t remember the passage. She thinks it is the middle of chapter nine when the main character, Karina Burgess and her fiancé, Rufus, break up. “You write under a pseudonym?

 

“How’d you know that?”

 

“It has the same voice as the Captain Atlas Zephyr story. The way your shoulders tensed when I said the title. Either you wrote this or an ex did.”

 

“I wrote it.”

 

“You’ve been published before? Very impressive, Emit Snow.” He smirks at her pseudonym “It’s in a bookstore. Do you have other reads?”

 

“My friend’s husband owns a publishing company. I change the name with the genre so I’m not known for one type. I only have three books out.”

 

“Can I have the list of them?”

 

“No.” She doesn’t want to sound as embarrassed as she is but she wrote them years ago and they really aren’t the best thing she’s ever written.

 

He buys that book and vows to find her other two.

 

-/-

 

After a series of low-key dates, nothing too over the top, she starts to feel like it’s getting too serious. After their fifth ‘meet-up,’ as she continues to call it, he takes her back to his apartment. He teaches her a few chords on his guitar and she lets him read some of her earlier stuff.

 

“There’s smut in this?”

 

“Don’t call it that, they sleep together once.” It’s not even graphic. She maybe uses the word ‘slit’ instead of anything more X-rated and ‘shaft.’ That’s hardly smut. He blushes all the same.

 

“How old were you, writing words like this?” He asks as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. His cheeks are so red now, she laughs her answer.

 

“I don’t know, seventeen?” He looks up at her at the sound of her chuckling and—

 

She likes to write this moment between all her love interests. She writes the moment she knows she wants to kiss him.

 

—He pans down to her smiling lips and her heart stills in her chest before moving wildly like a game of freeze dance in the third grade. He inches closer and she can’t really tell if she’s staying all that still. Suddenly, he’s only inches from her, the tablet in his hands set aside as he reaches for her jaw.

 

When she writes these moments, she imagines what the first time kissing a crush feels like. It was once Victor Whale in the fifth grade. He turned out to be a sleaze and those kisses never ended up going the distance. Then it was Graham Humbert in 9th grade. It got her heart racing but her mind was still recording every second of it, analyzing the way his lips seemed to thin against her own, how he wasn’t acting like she had read about for years in novels.

 

She kissed Neal Cassidy when she was 16 and she remembers a hunger within him, something that made her feel wanted. She’d write about that feeling all the time.

 

This feeling blows them all out of the water.

 

From this point on, every scene she writes will talk about the gentleness that makes her feel safe as he twines her curls around his finger. How he makes her feel eager when he stills a hair’s breath away from her lips. She’s wanted to kiss him before, there’s no way she hasn’t considered it, but she’s never had a want for him before. She clenches her eyes shut in anticipation. Butterflies swarm her gut when his breath hits her lips just before his lips hit her lips.

 

It’s nothing like she’s ever read or written before.

 

She doesn’t taste the last thing he’s eaten, she tastes her lip balm as it smears onto his lips, a light hint of strawberry sorbet. And it’s not the type of thing she’ll remember most. She’ll better remember how she couldn’t think of a single thing when he was kissing her, with his mouth molding against hers like they were made for this kind of thing. It’s good. It’s so good when he grips her hip with his other hand and takes charge, coaxing her mouth to open in line with his.

 

It would be enough just to breathe him in, but he pulls her in. He pulls her closer and her arms go around his waist. There’s a slight strain in her neck from the way she angles her head as his tongue enters her mouth. Everything is contrasting, one gentle hand cradling the back of her head, the other forceful and possessive as it creeps up her waist, and now his tongue hesitantly adventurous if that even makes sense. It slips into her mouth slowly, but the second it meets hers, he covers hers with his own, squeezing her that much closer.

 

Maybe it’s been a long time coming. Maybe every time he grinned at her or she smiled at him the need to come together increased. Now their teeth are clacking as he guides her jaw higher to compensate for their height difference. Her fingers claw and burrow into the material of his shirt. It’s not good anymore, it’s everything. The gentle touch of his lips has turned desperate. The butterflies they’ve induced now a phoenix from the ashes of the inferno he ignited within her. First kisses have never been all-consuming before. He kisses her like they’re running out of time, or like their days are numbered and he won’t get another chance.

 

Maybe they won’t. Until now she only liked him, he was only a crush. Now he’s the beginning of a relationship and that just won’t do.

 

“Killian.” She tugs away, immediately covering her mouth with her forearm.

 

“I’m sorry. Was I too aggressive?” His eyes are wide and pleading, and he’s too invested. She can already tell. “I just have wanted you for so long now.”

 

“I should get home.” She speaks to her lap, unable to tell him to his sweet, deserving face. She wipes her mouth on her sleeve and picks up her tablet and her messenger bag.

 

“I can… I can walk you if—”

 

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” She manages to reach the handle before he speaks up. She manages to open the door and walk out before he says a word.

 

Every writer has to have an unfinished story, one that they really liked at one point but couldn’t see it through because they had no idea what the ending would be like. Killian can be hers.

 

-/-

 

She starts driving forty-five minutes out of town to the nearest library. It’s creepy and there’s no wifi so she has to use an Ethernet cord. The idea of it makes her cringe but so does returning to her last one.

 

He’s left her no messages. No quotes, no words, no emoji. She doesn’t know why she should even keep his number saved.

 

Her stories have gone to shit. She’s not so sure she should even keep the documents saved. She’s already started a new story about a girl who decides early on there will be no romance in her life. A story about a girl who has mechanical parts. Ophelia Pearl.

 

She thinks it’s clever. She knows he would too if he read it. He has a fascination with names. He’d say something like ‘How fitting, a pearl is valuable, but takes a lot to get to.’ Or ‘Sea Captains are the best at cultivating pearls, you know.’ And she’d smile and he’d smile at her smile, making everything in the whole damn world seem like a distance memory or a far off place.

 

She hasn’t been able to get much work done in weeks. Every thought is connected to another. She set a new record yesterday, 65 seconds to end up right back to Killian. 65 seconds and she is suddenly sad all over again.

 

She needs a new muse. Something that keeps the old one from showing up in every line she types and every thought she has.

 

-/-

 

“Are you reading this?” In every town, there’s a select team of sleaze-balls. She’s silly to think it’s something only her own has. There’s a book on the table the little girl next to her was reading. “The Scarlett Letter.” He takes a seat without asking. They always do.

 

"A pure hand needs no glove to cover it." She quotes the book with one of the easiest, shortest phrases she can think of. He doesn’t get the reference.

 

Killian would have caught the reference.

 

He pretends to be a feminist, says something ending with ‘And if a man did that today, they’d praise him.’ She wants to slam her laptop shut and tell him to leave but she’s been waiting for someone to come along and distract her.

 

She turns to meet him. Mid 40’s, young hair cut for his age, has no sense of personal boundaries and stares at her like a piece of meat. There is literally no inspiration, not even a villain. She is completely underwhelmed, but she doesn’t reject him anyway.

 

She wants to stop thinking about Killian every time she has a quiet moment to herself. And, for a library frequenter, she has quite a few quiet moments.

 

“What are you working on anyhow?” She tells him, but he doesn’t watch her like she’s something special or tell her she’s brilliant. He doesn’t compliment her mind once and it’s frustrating. She doesn’t need some guy’s validation, but she needs to stop comparing every guy to him.

 

“…And so these kids are forced to grow up.” He stares blankly after her explanation on the story.

 

“What is that? Like teen?”

 

“Young Adult.”

 

“Oh, that’s what they classify those Twilight books as, isn’t it?”

 

“And millions of other titles around the world. It’s a pretty vague category.”

 

“I like the more mature stuff. Like The Scarlett Letter and Fifty Shades of Grey.” Okay, she’s fucking done.

 

“Here’s the thing…” And she knows no one will laugh when she reads him the riot act, no cute, British snicker. (She knows snickering isn’t British, but she hasn’t heard a single accent in weeks and she misses his.) “You’re full of shit. There’s no sex in The Scarlett Letter. You’re referencing the movie, which I could care less about, really. I don’t care if you’ve never read a book in your life, I’m not interested in you.”

 

“Well, you’ve certainly wasted my time like you were.” He rises and leaves the chair to tumble backward as he stocks off. If this guy thought she was interested after three minutes of conversation, Killian must have thought they were engaged after six months.

 

-/-

 

She comes back to her home library after a couple of weeks away. It’s stifling to be in a foreign area trying to find a new muse when all she does is think about her old one.

 

She sits in the open. She wears a bright colored t-shirt and types loud and fast to draw attention. It’s the most immature thing she’s ever done, but the idea of reaching out to him first is too scary. She left his apartment that day but he never looked back. He never tried to talk to her and it’s pretty clear she doesn’t deserve for him to, but she wants it all the same.

 

“’Shatter the Glass’ and ‘Formidable’” He sits beside her with a look of accomplishment and pride. He found her other two published books.

“How’d you find out?”

 

“Same publisher as the first book. You also use the same initials.” He leans in a little as he reaches for his phone in his back pocket. She gets a whiff of is mahogany cologne and feels her nerves dissipate. How does a person you barely know feel as familiar as a home you’ve always had?

 

“Are you a librarian or a detective?” He’s scrolling through something before turning the phone to face her.

 

“Eponine Swallow and Evan Switch” She realizes the books are now sitting on the work table beside the bracelet she hasn’t been able to find.

 

“Is that my bracelet?” It hits her then, he's been hauling these items around with him, hoping she'd show up again. There’s no way he left the house knowing today was the day she’d be here.

 

“It was between the cushions of my couch. Who is the author of the Captain Zephyr story?”

 

“Eponine writes fantasy.”

 

“And the other one, the one I still can’t read?”

 

“Emit.”

 

“Brilliant.” She adores the way he says that word. She adores him, with his interest in her for who she is and the way she trusts him with her secrets. She missed him and when he smiles the way he is at her; she gets the urge to kiss him.

 

It’s thoughtless, brainless really, to assume she could kiss him here and now after everything. She walked out after their first kiss and called the whole thing off. So when she leans in, he retreats instantly.

 

“I have no idea why I thought that was o—”

 

“I work here. I actually have to get back to that, but…” He winces like he hates himself for forgiving her “I would meet you anywhere after I get off?” The way he says ‘anywhere’ sounds like the type of promise she’s not ready for.

 

“My place?” Her roommate is upstate visiting an old friend. She’s got the place to herself.

 

“I’ve never been there.” She tugs a sheet out of her notebook and writes her address on it. “Okay…I’m off at 6:30. I guess I’ll meet you there?”

 

“Okay.” He rises pretty quickly after that, but she reaches out to stop him. “Killian, thank you.” 

 

“For what?”

 

“Not hating me.”

 

“I never said that.” He winks as he walks away and she hopes to God he’s kidding.

 

-/-

 

He text her that he’s ten minutes away twelve minutes ago. She’s spent the last 120 seconds pacing. She’s not a pacer. She’s nervous. It’s pretty clear to her now that this is much more than a crush. She spent the first few months falling for him through the things he said to other people. They started speaking to one another and she’s been screwed ever since.

 

Romance in real-life isn’t always as obvious as two spotlights and a few clichés.  She can’t count the number of times she’s taken two seconds to mentally rip a guy to shreds and dispose of any interest she may have had. She doesn’t like to let people close to her. If she can stop it before it goes anywhere, she can save herself but with Killian every time she’s tried to save herself she’s ended up wanting him more.

 

Romance isn’t always a clean-cut meeting that cues her in that this particular protagonist is going to get the girl. Sometimes it’s just messy.

 

The sound of his knocking breaks her thoughts. She opens up to see he stopped for take-out.

 

“Hey.” She breathes.

 

“Hey.” He moves in pretty close, closing the door behind him. She reaches to take the bag from him when he raises it from her reach. “Correct me if I’m wrong, were you going to kiss me earlier today?”

 

He’s not wrong. She wanted to kiss him ‘hello’ just now but it seemed too couple-like so she chickened out.

 

“Can’t remember.” She avoids his eyes and bounces on her heels to reach the bag. She can feel his gaze on her as she moves toward the kitchen. “How’d you know I’d like what you got?”

 

“You mean because we’ve never gone to dinner?” He’s giving her a hard time, but she’d rather him be here teasing her than be somewhere else forgetting she ever existed.

 

“Do you want to go to dinner with me? Maybe tomorrow night?”

 

“Are you asking me out?”

 

“I’m asking you out. Don’t be so weird about it.” She shrugs and turns from him, trying to school her features from looking any one emotion right now. She uses the time to grab plates and he uses the time to grab her from behind.

 

She didn’t even hear his footsteps as his arms wrap around her waste. Do butterflies migrate north when they’re happy? Her stomach feels a full colony of them wrap around her heart.

 

“I would love to go out with you.” He presses his lips to her cheek, lingering as if to breathe her in. “I missed you these last couple of weeks. Where’ve you been?”

 

“Oh, uh…just around.” She fights against the urge to shrug again at fear it will make him stop holding her. It’s bizarre that domesticity is so thrilling, right? He’s holding her like they’re comfortable with each other in the middle of her kitchen as she grabs plates for take-out. It doesn’t feel brand new, it feels familiar and she hates when she thinks she might want more of this. “I missed you, too.”

 

Six hours and about 14 episodes of Brooklyn nine-nine, it’s almost one in the morning. He says he should be going, but six hours is not a quick remedy for the weeks she didn’t see him.

 

“You could stay.”

 

“I don’t know, Swan. A man likes to be courted.”

 

“I’m not saying sleep with me, I’m saying…” she gets a little flustered when feelings come into play. She likes lounging on the couch with him, loves his arm around her. She likes his presence. It’s been so long since she’s had physical contact from a guy she had feelings for. “You could stay.”

 

He stays.

 

He borrows old gym shorts she has from high school and they look like latex painted on his thicker thighs. She can’t remember how this whole sleeping thing works when you’re seeing someone, but he opens his arms for her and she nestles in.

 

-/-

 

He used the word ‘stunning’ to describe her tonight. She smiled and tried to say something nice back but her words wouldn’t work right. She’s so nervous and hasn’t been able to stop replaying that compliment in her head all night.

 

It’s serious now, like feminine dress and fancy dinner date serious. It’s her wearing heels and him lending her his leather jacket and a rose that she has no idea how to care for. It’s great though, it’s so great.

 

“I had a great time.” That’s what normal people who aren’t in fictional situations usually say after dates. And now they usually have a great kiss to finish the whole thing up.

 

“Really? You barely talked the whole time.” She turns to meet him as he crowds her in the small space in front of her door. He’s watching her carefully and she doesn’t know what to say right now. She’s written a million first dates but they don’t usually occur this late in a relationship.

 

“I know. I just, I don’t know what people talk about on dates.”

 

“We’re not ‘people,’ we’re the same two individuals we have been. We have a lot in common. We could have talked about the same things we always do, books or music…the price of coffee at conglomerate operations. You know that lights a fire in me.”

 

“I know you hate Starbucks.”

 

“No one company should have all that power.” She laughs and he grins proudly at her. “That’s all I want, you laughing. If every time we get together all you do is laugh, I will not be able to contain my joy.”

 

In an alternate universe, there’s a version of themselves quoting that line as one of their literary favorites. He glances to her lips again and she can’t control herself. Her lips crash against his while he’s still smiling, teeth clacking as she rises on her tip-toes to reach him. His hands grip her waist and not a moment too soon. He surges forward, knocking her off her center of balance and into her front door. She gets lost in that universe, one where just the two of them exist until the floor falls through.

 

Well, technically the door, and not so much ‘fall’ as swing open abruptly causing her to cling to Killian to keep from falling flat on her ass.

 

“Oh.” Elsa whispers. They’ve been roommates for quite some time and she’s really not the nosy-type. If she’s out here it’s purely by accident. “I heard a bang and thought…Sorry.”

 

“Killian,” Emma clears her throat after finding her balance and stepping away from him. “This is my roommate, Elsa. Elsa, this is Killian.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Elsa.” His face is beet red as he extends a very gentlemanly hand. Elsa reddens too. Poor girl suffers from secondhand embarrassment like you wouldn’t believe. She takes his hand for maybe a second before pulling away and backing up into the apartment.

 

“You too. I’m just going to close this and try to give you guys the privacy you once had back.”

 

“It’s alright.” He stops her. “It’s late and I should be going.” Somehow ‘going’ doesn’t seem like the best solution at all. She wants him to stay again, but it sounds clingy as hell in her head. How does one go from avoiding someone for weeks to suddenly wanting to live in their arms? Elsa awkwardly leaves the door open, but scurries away to provide any bit of privacy she can, and Emma thanks her mentally for that. She turns back to Killian who is finally starting to pale up again.

 

“You can stay if you want.”

 

“You want me to spend the night again?” Sure, he did wake up here this morning before heading home to shower before work, but maybe she’s just trying to make up on the time she lost while she was being stupid.

 

“Not if you don’t want to.” She shrugs, taking a backward step inside her apartment. “I’m sure we’ll hang out soon.”

 

“Come here” he whispers, reaching out for her. She shakes her head slowly, as she tries her best to appear uninterested. It’s hard to become this girl overnight, the girl who wants to have a relationship. “Swan.” She takes another step back and he gets this look in his eyes like a tiger ready to pounce. She steps back once more and he chases her. Lifting her off her feet as he slams the door behind him. He kisses her hard and quick.

 

“Do you consider yourself courted?” She huffs out against his cheek when the kiss breaks. She thinks she hears him groan before hiking her legs up around his waist and whisking her off to her bedroom.

 

-/-

 

One real date was all it took. Now they’re in a real relationship, from the texts goodnight to spending more days a week with each other than apart. They go on more dates and have more sleepovers. Suddenly it’s another three months in and she shares more of herself than she ever has with anyone. He shares himself quite a bit as well.

 

“Your first kiss?” she asks one night as she lays with him in bed at his place. They’re facing each other as they talk throughout the night, a short distance between them.

 

“Uh, I was eighteen.” He lies with a sneaky little grin.

 

“This game is called 21 truths, Killian.”

 

“I was fourteen. She was dressed like a fairy on Halloween and I was dressed like Peter Pan.”

 

“Tights and all?”

 

“That’s a second truth, love. Gonna have to wait your turn.”

 

“Fine, ask me something.”

 

“Have you ever been in love?”

 

“No.” She lies, but there’s no grin behind it. It doesn’t even feel like I lie these days. She’s sure she loved him, wouldn’t have been broken for so long if she didn’t, but this thing with Killian takes so much away from that love; the need to protect herself, for one. “I mean…yes, I was but I was just a kid and didn’t know what love was supposed to be like.”

 

“And now you do?” she nods and he moves in closer. “Does this measure up?”

 

“I think you reached your truth max this round. My turn.” He watches her, his eyes studying with a focus to gather the answer her mouth won’t give. “Did you or did you not wear tights as Peter Pan?”

 

“I did—Are you in love now?” He hasn’t made bold strokes since their first kiss. He’s been playing defense and following the ball up and down the court with her. All in one swift move, he’s managed to steal the ball and her breath.

 

“Yes.” She jumps to her next question before gravity conks her on the head and she loses her comfort in this bed. “Are you?”

 

“Absolutely.” He’s straddling her before she has a chance to think, her face held in both his strong hands. Her eyes flutter shut in just enough time before their lips collide. She has no way of knowing where she begins and he ends as her mind melts to nothing at the heat of her body.

She feels his hands slip from her face as he slides his lips lower down her body. There’s a second where their lips part as cotton builds a fleeting barrier between them.

 

Everything is moving so quickly and her heart’s fear as that without her mind, she’ll lose this memory, this moment where they weren’t a new couple, but two people in love.

 

When his lips return, his hands are coursing down her ribs, her waist, her hips, before they come together at the fly of her jeans. Her hands move on their own, another quick separation as his shirt goes over his head. She opens her eyes to appreciate him, and finds the rest of the room has blurred around him. His hand slips beneath the denim, fingers stretching and reaching for parts of her he can’t help but touch when they get like this. He’s covering her mouth with his again in a hot, wet kiss, tongue not giving any warning before thrusting in. His fingers do something similar as he slips her underwear to the side and slides a finger through her slick heat. He slips two fingers inside of her without any resistance, his forehead pressing against hers as he breaks the kiss directly after.

 

“You are always so wet, so fast.” His desperate voice only adds to that, shooting added pressure to where he’s giving relief. His lips drag from the corner of her mouth, along her jaw in something sloppy and almost drunk. “I love that about you.”

 

“Yeah?” She whines when he picks up the pace, thrusting deeper, reaching further, curling his long fingers against that star-seeing spot.

 

“Yeah.” He groans against her ear. “And how you sound, and how you breathe.” He grinds his palm against her clit, and she loses control of the sounds she’s making. He coaxes her to her climax and she moans out his name a half-dozen times, until her toes uncurl and her spine lowers back to the bed. “I love the way you say my name.”

 

“Killian…” she sighs

 

“Just like that.” His nose drawing swirls along her cheek as he lingers within inches of her mouth.

 

“I love you.” He stills, pressing his lips exactly where they land. His hand slips from her pants, allowing him to brace himself on that arm and run cleaner fingers through her hair.

 

As Emma catches her breath, her hands find purchase against his damp chest.  His heart is racing stronger than hers, despite her being the one to climax. She smiles at his softness when their eyes meet again.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

It’s not anything she’s written before. There’s normally some conflict or fall-out, if she’s writing fantasy or action, some sword fight or life-risking adventure. There’s never this gentleness. There’s never this simplicity prior to a confession of this magnitude. After spending years reading and writing grand gestures and big moments, to have one so down-to-earth and easy almost seems unreal.

 

-/-

 

He continues to love her long after they’ve said the words. He continues to find inspiration in her and write songs about her. She always thought an artist needed to be in pain to produce, but he does just as well with that gorgeous grin on his face.

 

No one writes the ‘Happily Ever After’ or the things in between the resolution and the happy ending. They don’t let the audience in on the details like how sometimes when two people make one commitment, they make another, maybe a few more after that.

 

She still sees him as her muse, when it’s a year later and she’s moved in with him, when it’s her second book about Captain Atlas Zephyr and she’s written a dozen little short stories about the life of Theo and Eliza. Those she still keeps just for her, like journal entries almost, each one tens of thousands of words about how it feels to be in love.

 

One day someone will read their story and find it to good to be true. The little girl always afraid of losing people finds the lost boy who makes her feel safe? The musician and the writer becoming each other’s muse? The girl who over complicates every romance navigates through her own with ease? It'll all sounds like fiction.

 


End file.
